


Ford City

by SardonicShipper



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Episode: s01e12 Faith, Homophobic Slurs, M/M, marshall and layla are deceased in this story
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-19
Updated: 2015-03-19
Packaged: 2018-03-18 14:10:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,068
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3572531
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SardonicShipper/pseuds/SardonicShipper
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some years after the events of "Faith," Dean returns to Ford City with Cas.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ford City

Dean had crisscrossed most of Nebraska since the days before he could even spell Nebraska, but the wendigo was a good excuse for him to show Cas the sights. The rundown zoo he and Sam had only been able to see by sticking their heads out the  backseat window before John had hit the gas. The honkytonk joint which had given him as much free beer as he’d wanted, ID or not, after he’d exorcised the toothless hardcase who’d been stabbed to death in the back alley sometime during a Happy Days commercial break. The burnt out shell of the old pizza place where John had taken Dean to play decaying Pac-Man and Galaga machines for one of the birthdays he’d remembered. 

Most people would have asked him why he wanted to sift through all the undreamt dreams and find some type of closure in a convenience store in Broken Bow where John had let him buy his own slush instead of sharing with Sam.

Cas wasn’t most people. He never had been. 

Dean was thankful for that when he saw the sign for Ford City. When he stopped breathing without even realizing, slight cough in his throat when he suddenly remembered to use his lungs.

"Dean," Cas said, briefly allowing his hand to cover Dean’s on the steering wheel, "Would you rather go on?"

So much of Dean wanted to scream yes, fuck this place, fuck that crazy lady and the reapers that had taken his choice away from him, that had slaughtered an innocent man in his name. Fuck them for the guilt that shot through him like a jagged bullet whenever he dared to think of that time - before John was really gone, before Hell, before he and Sam had become so dead inside - as “the good old days.” 

"No," he said, shakily.

"No." More sure this time.

"Need you to help me find a place." 

x

_Layla Rourke. God’s Special Daughter._

Dean cringed a little as he kneeled to look at the tombstone. Bad knee was one reason, the other being a cheesy little drawing of a cherub carved into the marble. Dean hadn’t really known Layla that well, but he had a feeling she would’ve hated that, had probably just said whatever she had to say to make her mother happy. 

Dean remembered her sweet smile, her purity. She might have been the purest person he’d ever known. Purity that went beyond whether or not she’d been acquainted with any car backseats or knew “the right people”, that was more about her spirit, her soul. 

He glanced over at Cas, Cas watching him, worrying for him. He touched Cas’ shoulder, opened his mind to share the memories. Memories still so clear and strong even as most hunts only existed as journal scrawls and regrets over the lives not saved in time.

He showed Cas the kindness and warmth she’d given him even when she had every reason to curse him. The pain in her mother’s eyes. The last conversation in his hotel room, when he knew that thanks in part to him, she was still going to die, and how her sense of peace had been the only thing that had kept him going for a long time after that day.

Cas stared at him, somewhat nervously, somewhat in awe. Dean knew Cas was still not quite used to being allowed such complete access, without disclaimers.

"You prayed for her, Dean?"

The tone was so full of reverence that Dean felt the tears forming in his eyes before he could string together a response.

"When I thought…when I made the deal to save Sam…" - he winced at the way his body buckled, because fuck this never got any easier to talk about, think about - "That year, I thought a lot about Layla. How she knew she was…how she was fine with it. Kept me going, Cas. Knowing she’d been where I was gonna be. She was one of the first people who made me wanna believe…"

He laughed, not quite knowing why, as Cas wiped his tears away. A simple gesture, one Dean needed more than he could ever say.

Dean had all but whispered the words, but their power was undimmed.

"She’s probably one of the reasons I believe in you."

The bond between the two men swelled with heartbreak and pride, powerful enough to nearly knock both men off their feet.

"Then I should thank her."

Cas ran his hand over the tombstone, whispering what Dean quickly recognized as a protection spell for the area of her burial. 

Dean forced back a twinge of regret that he hadn’t known Cas then, that Layla couldn’t have been saved. Tried to tell himself there was some reason, beyond life’s usual cruelty. He couldn’t quite buy it.

As if Cas sensed Dean’s guilt, he clutched at Dean’s leather jacket, drawing him close, the Purgatory-style beard Cas had started growing sometime back in Juneau or Tallahassee gently scraping against Dean’s smooth neck. The love emanating from Cas burned so pure and bright, even after everything, all the pain and betrayal and regret, that Dean sometimes had to look away. 

Shifting focus, Dean traced his fingers across the dates on the cool slab.

"June 2007. That means she had a little more time. I hope she wasn’t…"

"She felt no pain until near the end. Her last year was one of the happiest of her life."

OK. Good. Dean would take that.

"Bye, Layla. Sorry I never got to crack any Clapton jokes - never really seemed like the right time. I…I’ll probably see you soon enough."

He tried to ignore Cas’ kicked puppy look when Dean talked about death. Maybe now he knew how Dean had felt all the 543 fucking times Cas had kicked his last harp. Still, he pulled Cas forward, planting a quick kiss on his lips, simple reassurance on both their parts.

Dean felt like if he babbled any more Layla would probably rise from the grave to shut him up. Besides, he had one last stop.

x

_Marshall Hall_

_We Will Always Be Proud_

The cruel irony of those words hit Dean as he noticed that some assholes had sprayed FAGGIT all over the tombstone. More than one asshole, judging by the various ages of the scrawls. Illiterate and bigoted. Dean was tempted to call in some favors from Death. 

"He died for me, Cas," Dean hissed, seconds away from breaking his hand on the vandalized marker. "He died for THIS? FOR THIS?!?!"

Before Dean could move, Cas had stepped in front of him, holding his wrists tight, Dean’s futile struggles slowly melting into their fingers threading together.

"He died for what he believed in. As did you. I could say these words a million times and you would argue, but I won’t let you blame yourself for this desecration."

Dean nodded, reluctantly letting go of the blind rage, because the rest was desolation.

"I sweated bullets over telling Sammy what you mean to me," Dean paused, rubbing his thumb over Cas’ mouth, Cas leaning into the palm cupping his chin. "Imagine what he went through, day after fucking day, Cas. It’s not fair. It’s not…"

The day Sam had told him about the clippings, that “immoral” people were being targeted, and later, their discovery that the healthy 27-year old teacher had been snuffed out by Fred Phelps in drag, all Dean could think about was Mr. Phillips, his history teacher in 8th grade, the few months he’d been in that school anyway. Thick glasses, crazy hair, seemed to wear a dozen different versions of the same slacks and white dress shirt that somehow never really seemed to fit him. Dean had called him Phil just to get a reaction, but Mr. Phillips had been cool about it. A few times a week after class, they’d talked about Beowulf or Homer or Grapes of Wrath, and then about Star Trek, which they had both been a little ashamed to admit to watching because something else was always supposed to be cooler.

Phil had sometimes mentioned his friend, Tony, had always seemed strangely proud of himself for even saying the name out loud. One day, he’d said “boyfriend;” word just slipped out. He’d looked at Dean like somebody had just stabbed him in the gut.

_"Please don’t tell anyone. Please."_

Dean had agreed, immediately. Everybody had always thought he was a little punk, and they hadn’t been entirely wrong, but he’d never use that against one of the only teachers who’d ever given a damn about him.

Phil never talked to him after class again. In class, every time he looked at Dean, or called on him, he always seemed scared, and sick, and sad. 

Marshall Hall had been fighting for teachers like Mr. Phillips. And for every kid who would rather end it all than set foot in a school. He deserved better than some fucked up grave. Or fucked up Dean Winchester.

Dean still flinched sometimes when Cas got too close when they were around a lot of people. When Cas wanted to take his hand, or whisper in his ear. It’d almost been easier in the “personal space” days, when he’d told himself everybody just had the wrong idea. Now they had the right idea, more right than Dean had ever imagined possible, and even though Cas still had enough angel mojo left to turn shitheads into stone, that still wasn’t always enough.

He’d already known how lucky he was to have Cas, but now, thinking of what Marshall had never been able to have, he realized just how lucky.

"Sometimes I wanted to be a teacher," Dean stated, flatly. One of the first times he’d said it to himself, let alone anyone else. "Thought I was too stupid. Didn’t think I could make the sacrifices."

"Dean, you are a teacher. You’ve taught Sam, Kevin, Bobby, Jo. Even your own father."

Even the mere mention of most of those names, now almost ghosts to Dean, fantasies of another life, caused him pain, but he knew Cas would never say their names to hurt him. Only to help.

Cas pulled him into another partial embrace, their foreheads touching, their hands resting on the tombstone.

"I see the memories of the teachers who sacrificed for you and your brother. The extra time, the money for supplies, the patience. I see the memories of you filling the same role for Sam. You were always his teacher. And once Sam no longer needed a teacher, you became mine."

"Your teacher?" Dean hesitantly whispered against Cas’ flush mouth.

"Mine. In every sense of the word."

Cas initiated a tender kiss, slowly conquering Dean’s fears and anxieties, and his own, at least for a moment. As they embraced, white light from their entwined hands coursed through the gravestone. When Dean finally noticed, a small weight lifted from his chest as he saw that the ugly graffiti was gone. Not just on the grave. Dean somehow felt stronger, more sure of what he wanted to be.

"A spell of protection…and damnation. Any person who tries to deface this grave will experience long-lasting, severe pain…as well as the loss of much of their body hair."

Dean really, really shouldn’t have been turned on by that.

Apparently Cas was in the same mood.

"Dean, if you become a teacher, would you be wearing red gym shorts?"

Dean laughed, in spite of himself, then muttered a sea of profanities (holy place and all) as he shoved Cas back toward the general direction of the Impala.

"Sam told you? I’m gonna KILL HIM!"

Cas’ usual poker face, whittled away over the years, allowed for a laugh, and then, a moment’s reflection.

"Dean?"

"Yeah, Cas?"

Contemplation. A flash of memories in Dean’s mind, shared mind with Cas, of every silly little thing he’d shown Cas over the last week.

"I like Nebraska."

Cas began the walk back to the car. Dean, bemused and slightly confused, and settling into peace, closure, whatever the fuck those were supposed to be, touched the gravestone one last time.

"Thanks for saving my life. I won’t screw it up. I promise." 

As he ran to catch up with Cas, he promised himself that if he ever got to be a teacher, the first person he’d talk about would be Marshall Hall.


End file.
